Old Dogs, Old Tricks
by Lampito
Summary: Dean is Not Happy. He doesn't mind weddings (so long as they happen to other people) but this one he objects to. And Sam won't even let him kill a werewolf; instead, he has to be *polite* to it, and that's bad enough, but having to cooperate with a cranky werewolf to make sure the bride and groom's big day goes without a hitch is just beyond the pale…
1. Chapter 1

Oh, for feck's sake, just when I thought I might get a bit of peace…

I have a lot to do. I am very busy. And just when I think the noise from the plot bunny pen might settle down for a bit, this utter, utter, utter bastard of a leporid pops up its head and dictates the start of a story. Just the start, mind you, nothing so useful as a plot… anyway, here in the Jimiverse, giving a reluctant plot bunny an airing can sometimes encourage it to be more forthcoming, so we'll give it a try. If only to get the little mongrel to shut up…

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Winchesters, I just dress 'em up in the Velcro stripper outfits then push 'em out on stage.

**Working Title:** Old Dogs, Old Tricks

**Rating:** T. Until such time as Dean Winchester takes a vow of silence.

**Summary:** Dean is Not Happy. He doesn't mind weddings, provided they happen to other people, but this one he objects to. And Sam won't even let him kill a werewolf; instead, he has to be *polite* to it, and that's bad enough, but having to cooperate with a cranky werewolf to make sure the bride and groom's big day goes without a hitch is just beyond the pale… a story of the Jimiverse.

**Blame:** The fault for this plot bunny can be laid fairly and squarely on The Denizens of the Jimiverse, (they are depraved), in particular the evil **klu.** You are all just _ghastly._

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter One<strong>

As he made his way noiselessly around the apparently derelict warehouse, he briefly caught sight of himself in a cracked sliver of a remaining pane of dirty, scuffed glass. Under other circumstances, he might've paused to make a satisfied observation:

_Dean Winchester, you are one handsome sonofabitch._

He was, too. Not just a fine piece of manflesh, but as a Hunter who'd reached the big… *mumble-mumble* -zero, and was not just still alive but still Hunting, he was nothing short of a miracle.

An awesome, damned fine-looking miracle.

A touch of grey in his hair and a few laugh lines did little to dull the glory of the Living Sex God, and if he wasn't the horny young twenty-something he'd once been as he blazed his way across the country, leaving no bed unmussed and no female toes uncurled, he was pretty much just as horny, and with a lifetime of experience, even better at curling toes, in his extremely well-informed opinion, like a master craftsman who had spent decades honing his talent. If it was even possible for the L.S.G. to improve on perfection. At any rate, he could still make a bit of extra cash by writing stories from his experiences – with practically no embellishment for literary licence, thank you very much – for 'Hustler' under a number of pseudonyms. Not many guys who'd reached their…*mumble-mumble*th birthday could do that.

But absolutely none of that went through his mind; he was on a Hunt, and a Hunter who didn't have his head absolutely and totally in the game, in the moment, predator completely focussed on prey, would likely stop being a Hunter very quickly.

The word for a Hunter who couldn't concentrate on the job, to the exclusion of everything else, was 'corpse'.

At his side, he felt Rio butt at his leg, a snarl on her big usually soulful face, but no sound coming from her; a Hunter's dog, part-Hellhound at that, knew better than to let out a growl whilst stalking their quarry. The gentle red glowing of the animal's eyes in the fading light indicated that they were getting close.

Dean found a window that had enough glass knocked out for him to wiggle his way safely into the dull gloom of the building. He grinned ruefully as Rio just walked through the wall, and was grateful that he didn't have to boost a Rottweiler-sized dog, and a large one at that, through the window. His trick shoulder gave him enough grief in the cold weather as it was.

The floor showed signs of recent activity, tracks in the dust and grit, and bottles carelessly tossed away, leaving swathes of broken glass across the stained cement in an act of careless vandalism, or possibly a crude alarm system, or basic but very effective mantrap. Well, for an ordinary man, perhaps, but for Dean Winchester, Hunter extraordinaire, it was just one more minor obstacle – there was a reason that boots were his preferred footwear, and having learned as a teenager to sneak away from a girl's room out a window, down a trellis and across a gravel drive, broken glass was a no-brainer.

Rio, feet untroubled by something as inconsequential as glass shards, suddenly froze, eyes piercing the shadows where Dean lurked. He froze too, and listened hard: his eyes might need contacts these days, but there wasn't anything wrong with his hearing, or his Hunter's insticts.

There. A definite snuffle. The sound of somebody who was terrified, and trying to keep quiet, but failing, somebody who had seen something so horrifying that they were frightened beyond speech, and reduced to attempting to muffle small keening sounds of fear. Carefully, he peered around a door that hung off one hinge.

It was a crudely barred cell, but a cage nonetheless. Inside it were three people that he could see, teenagers from the look of them, two girls and a boy. It looked like his brother's research was on the money.

When Sam had identified a number of suspicious disappearances in Wyoming, and found that the intel suggested a nest of vampires that was not just active but 'recruiting', Dean's accelerator foot and machete hand had begun to itch. It had been a while since their last Hunt – they were fewer and further between anyway, what with both Winchesters being in their *mumble-mumble*s – but he'd decided that it was a job that would benefit from the attention of a couple of Hunters who had long experience with serious fuglies. Sam had rolled his eyes, and insisted that, given the number of bloodsuckers that could be involved by then, it would take more than the two of them, and Dean had eventually,grudgingly, agreed.

But of course, he'd insisted that he be the one to go in, and try to get the civilians out alive – he was Dean Winchester, after all.

Edging his way carefully around the door, he lifted a finger to his lips in the universal signal for quiet as the kids caught sight of him, and gasped. The girl who had been sniffling looked as if she was about to scream; he lowered his machete, and help up an empty hand. _I'm here to help._

A couple of steps into the echoing space, he caught sight of the first of the vampires. They were sprawled, some in couples, some individually, on improvised furniture, some of them with bottles of liquor still within arm's reach. Leaving Rio to watch them, he made his way to the cage, and inspected the lock.

"I'm here to get you out," he breathed in a barely-there whisper, "Just stay quiet."

It was an old key lock, almost an insult to him, and he carefully eased it open, taking an agonisingly long time to uncoil the chain around the bars to avoid any clinking. "Okay," he went on, "You go out the way I came in. Slow, quiet. Follow my footprints out. Head for the double doors, somebody's unlockin' em from the outside by now. There's a guy there, looks like a real tall dishmop, go to him, and follow him, there's a black car…"

"What if they wake up?" the sniffling girl looked ready to burst into tears again.

"Then run like hell," he told them sternly, "And don't look back, just run, me and the dog'll hold 'em off. Go on. Stay quiet. Watch where you put your feet."

Clutching at each other, the teens made their way nervously across the floor. They got half way before their nerve gave out, and they broke into an stumbling, clumsy run. One of them clipped an empty bottle with a foot, sending it clanking across the floor.

There was movement amongst the prone forms in the gloom.

With frightened shrieks, the teens ran for it.

Dean swore under his breath as the vampires started to wake up, and look around. "What the fuck?" demanded one of them, stretching. "Oh, hey, what happened to dinner?"

One who had been around thirty when he was turned sat up, then lazily got to his feet, eyeing Dean like a cat watching an interesting mouse. "Somebody came and let it out," he observed, "Ladies and gentlemen, I do believe we have a Hunter."

Dean gave them a cocky salute with his machete.

"What's a Hunter?" asked a blonde woman petulantly, picking up a bottle and necking it before throwing the empty away.

"A type of insect," the apparent leader of the nest smiled, "A pest. Very annoying."

"I be dat asshole," agreed Dean brightly.

"Fortunately," the vampire went on, "They taste delicious." He smiled more widely, letting his feeding fangs descend. "Even old ones."

"Like wine," Dean added, "As we age, we just keep gettin' better. Except my brother, judgin' by the lemon-sucking bitchfaces he pulls, I'm pretty sure he's turned to vinegar by now…"

As the vampires edged uncertainly towards Dean, bemused by his complete lack of fear of them, Rio suddenly snarled, eyes glowing hotly red and hellteeth bristling like a Kodiak bear's dentition. The vampires checked in confusion.

"Hey, you don't think you're the only ones who can to the teeth thing, do you?" Den asked sunnily. Striking like a snake, he darted forward, and took the blonde woman's head off with a vicious swipe of his blade, then turned and ran for it.

He was never going to outrun them, he knew that, and so did they. There were at least a dozen of them, and as he dodged around the detritus cluttering the abandoned warehouse, he could hear them behind him, beside him, overtaking him, surrounding him…

By the time he got to the open space where the main doors had been cracked open, they were waiting for him, the leader grinning at him, fangs showing.

"Getting dumber as you get older, it looks like," he sneered, as the vampires formed a loose circle around Dean and Rio. "Did you really think you could outrun us?"

"Honestly, no," Dean shrugged, reaching down to pat Rio's head. "It's my knee, you see, I've damaged it a couple of times, and…"

"Are you taking any medication for it?" interrupted the head leech.

"Not at the moment," Dean replied, "I got some anti-inflammatories for if it gets real bad, but…"

"Good," the vampire smiled, "Because crap in your bloodstream might spoil my dinner."

Dean gave the crowd a slow, smouldering smile that made a couple of the female vampires wonder whether turning him rather than eating him might be more fun. "Oh, I aint your dinner, bloodsucker," he drawled cockily.

The head vampire smirked. "Really?" he chuckled, "Well, what would you call it?"

Dean's grin was truly predatory. "I'm the bait."

And all hell broke loose.

* * *

><p>Le sigh. He doesn't change, does he? Send reviews, and we'll see if we can figure out where this little bunny is going.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Plot bunny will not shut up. Plot bunny is evil.

Rio the Hunter's dog of Hellhound heritage was mentioned in 'Grumpy Old Men': Lemmy sired at least one litter, the last one being off a Rottie bitch named Rosie, and Xena and Zeus (along with Thor and Athena, as well as little Loki) were from that litter. Xena had a litter, and one of those pups, Kane, Chose Dean, and Rio was one of his pups. She's possibly the last dog he actively Hunted with, since he's now in his *mumble-mumble*s, or maybe there was one more after her, but we know that, as intimated in 'They Want A Piece Of Me', in the Jimiverse, he kept breeding the dogs descended from Jimi Senior until his death, by which time he was *mumble-mumble* years old.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

If Dean hadn't been completely concentrated on the job at hand, he might have laughed out loud at the expressions that passed over the vampires' faces.

First, there was confusion as Rio shot forward, hellteeth bristling, to take down one vampire and tear its head off with a single bite.

Then anger, when Sam and RJ and another dog appeared from the shadows, blades and teeth flashing.

And finally, when two adult male werewolves burst from cover, there was fear.

If Dean hadn't been completely concentrated on the job at hand, it would've been funny.

But like so many really good jokes, it was over very quickly.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They escaped with scrapes, bruises, and a cut lip.

"You enjoyed that," said Sam accusingly, toeing at one of the headless corpses then reaching down to use its shirt to wipe off his machete.

"Of course," grinned Dean, bending to clean his own weapon.

"Who wouldn't?" chirped his son RJ. "I love my job!"

"I know that," Sam pulled a practically audible Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One) at his brother and nephew. "I wasn't talking to you." He turned around to eye the two werewolves. The older one, with greyed fur but nonetheless still powerfully built, and a young adult, tall and heavily muscled, a budding Alpha approaching his prime. They whuffed in amusement. The older one blew a recognisable raspberry at Sam, then the younger one shrugged and shapeshifted, resuming his human form, which was grinning unrepentantly.

"My Mom encouraged me to find a career that I would find fun," Connor told him.

The old grey wolf panted in amusement, then shrugged – and conspicuously failed to shift back to his human form. His long, grizzled muzzle somehow managed to assume a sheepish expression.

Connor facepalmed. "I thought it was supposed to be teenagers who were embarrassed by their parents," he moaned, "I shoulda grown outta you doing this."

"Nope," Dean grinned, "A really good parent can embarrass you for the rest of your life, and if they're really talented, from beyond the grave."

"Aint that the truth," muttered RJ.

Andrew managed to get it right on the third try, finally reassuming his human form, and pulling a face at the blood in his pigtail.

"And what's your excuse?" Sam looked at him.

"Uh, peer group pressure?" he suggested brightly.

"Grandpa Bobby once called you the mincing machine," offered RJ.

"I can see why," muttered Sam, eyeing the corpses that Andrew had torn apart.

"It's because I'm not a pro, like you guys," Andrew decided, "No finesse. I'm an amateur, but I try harder."

"You guys better get back to the car," said RJ, "Get those kids out of here. We'll clean up. Bury the corpses, torch the evidence in here."

"Sounds like a plan," nodded Dean, "Come on, bro, we gotta go talk these kids down. What's the cover story?"

"A weirdo sect of deluded sanguinarians," replied Sam, "We tell 'em they were abducted by a bunch of freaky emo types who are convinced that they need to drink blood to survive."

"Well, comin' from a freaky emo type like you, I think we can sell that, bitch."

"You certainly got the deluded bit covered, jerk."

"Who's deluded?"

"You are! You shoulda let one of the kids be the bait, they're faster than you."

"But I'm more awesome than them, Sammy."

"That asshole nearly got you! Seriously, last birthday you were si-"

"Don't you _dare_ say it, bitch!"

"Point is, neither of us is as quick as we were, Dean. And I absolutely will not have my brother bein' turned into a blood-drinking asshole."

"Awwww, Sammy, anybody would think you cared about me."

"I do care, Dean. Believe me, you're bad enough as a beer-drinking asshole…"

"You'd be safe from me, I wouldn't want to bite you – you eat so much rabbit food, you don't have arteries and veins, you have xylem and phloem."

"Huh? Did you just say 'xylem' and 'phloem'? Did I just hear you use those actual words? Do you even know what they mean?"

"Yup. And you got 'em. You aint like normal people; your heart beats, and your phloem flows, and your xylem… ziles, I guess…"

"You looked those up, didn't you? You went and looked those words up, probably ages ago, and you've been waitin' ever since to use them in a conversation to insult me."

"Heh heh, you wait until I get started on self-pollination…"

"Knock it off, Dean."

"What's up, Sam, you got stamen envy?"

"Dean…"

"Now me, I'm strictly dioecious."

"I hate you."

The Winchesters' bickering faded as they headed for the Impala and the rescued teens, while the werewolves shapeshifted to dig a pit and bury what was left of the vampires, then RJ's dog Rex checked the building for any survivors – human or otherwise – before RJ torched the building.

When they made it back to the motel that Winchesters and Jaegers had used as their home base for the job, the Impala was nowhere to be seen.

"I call first on the shower!" declared Connor, scratching at his head, "Vampire blood is so damned hard to get out of your fur."

"Don't use all the hot water!" Andrew yelled after him, shaking his head and taking a beer from the small fridge. "Your uncle was right," he admitted to RJ, "It was kind of fun. I should probably feel bad about that."

"Nah," grinned RJ, taking the beer he was offered, "It does you good to get out and exercise. At your age."

"At my age?" echoed Andrew. "Do you say that to your dad?"

"Yeah," RJ replied breezily. "All the time."

"And what does he say?"

"Oh, he calls me a smartass, and tells me I need somebody to show me how it's done," RJ answered.

"Just remember that, young whipper-snapper," intoned Andrew, bending his neck sideways. "Although, I think I'll be feeling it tomorrow."

They sat on the sofa, drinking their beers, Andrew occasionally yelling at Connor to get a move on. "So, out with it," Andrew prompted him.

"Huh?" RJ said.

"Whatever it is, out with it," Andrew repeated, "Something's botherin' you."

"Is this a werewolf thing?" demanded RJ.

"It's a dad thing," Andrew smiled, "I got kids of my own. And I can tell when something's bothering one. What's wrong, RJ?" His face became concerned. "Is it your dad? You made a point of staying with me and Connor when he left with Sam."

"No, there's nothing wrong with Dad," RJ assured him, looking suddenly nervous. "It was something I wanted to ask you. Uncle Andrew, I mean, I know you're not actually my uncle, but you're kinda like family, just not actually related…"

"It don't end with blood," Andrew did an astonishingly good impersonation of Bobby.

That made RJ smile. "Yeah," he acknowledged, "I guess he's right. The thing is… the thing is…"

"You're worrying me now, RJ." Andrew eyed him. "Whatever it is," he said reassuringy, "Try the band-aid approach. Just do it."

"Yeah, you're probably right." RJ ran a hand through his hair, and ran out of words again. Then he smiled, and sat up. "It's about Sabine."

Andrew's eyebrows shot up. "Sabine? As in, my daughter, Sabine?"

"Yeah, that Sabine." RJ's face assumed the beautiful smile that he'd inherited from Dean. "I would like your permission, and your blessing, to ask her to marry me."

* * *

><p>Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. The excrement is about to hit the rotating air recirculation device, isn't it?<p>

I'm off for a few days of R&R in Tasmania, and I can only hope that the little bugger dictating this story will wait until I get back, and hopefully have something resembling a plot by then. Not sure what this plot bunny's name is yet - any ideas what it might be, and why? Whatever it is, send him or her nice tasty reviews, because reviews make the phloem flow and the xylem… zile… (I didn't pay much attention during botany lectures until the day the lecturer brought in a marijuana plant for educational purposes.)


	3. Chapter 3

In the Jimiverse, Old North werewolves do not have an increased life span compared to humans. They are prone to the slings and arrows of outrageous physiology like everybody else: if they smoke, they get cancer, if they drink, they get cirrhosis, if they eat too much sometimes food (chocolate, doughnuts, Americans) they get fat. As they age, they go grey, and get creaky, just like everybody else.

Both Ronnie and Andrew are old grey-muzzles by now. Andrew has just gotten more mellow as he's aged. Like Dean, Ronnie's Hunting is fast catching up with her, and she has old injuries that give her grief when the wind is cold. Her human hair is faded to iron grey, and her wolf pelt is nearly as silver as her daughter's. She won't admit it, but she's self-conscious about how, in her wolf form, all her whiskers have now turned white.

The offspring of Old North werewolves are born wolves, whether or not they are technically 'half-breeds'. (RJ Winchester is completely human, despite his interesting parentage, because his mother sent him to live with his father as a mortal). In his treatise that became_ the_ reference on Old North wolves, Sam theorized that this trait was evolved to make it possible to increase genetic diversity within an unavoidably small 'full-blood' population, with all the advantages to the species that outbreeding and hybrid vigour can confer.

Dean theorized that giving him werewolf grandchildren was just one more way that the entire universe conspired to piss him off.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

"He seemed pretty chipper," mused Sam, as the Winchesters waved goodbye to Andrew's truck.

"Chipper?" echoed Dean, "Did you just say, 'chipper'?"

"Yeah, chipper," repeated Sam. "You know, upbeat, good-natured, happy, in a good mood."

"Well thanks for that, Doctor Thesaurus," Dean rolled his eyes. "What you've just said is, 'Gee, Andrew seemed pretty Andrew'."

"No, I mean more than his usual default," Sam countered, "Something more than background slightly bemused good-natured."

"Well, the guy's just been let off the chain and gone out for a howl with the boys, and torn a bunch of vampires to pieces," Dean pointed out, opening the car door. "Heh heh, 'the mincing machine'. He's still got it. I mean, what's not to feel chipper about? After shredding a whole nest of bloodsuckers, who wouldn't feel chipper?"

Sam gave his brother a calculating look as he slid into shotgun. "You really are a Neanderthal, aren't you?" he declared sourly.

"I'm just in touch with my primordial heritage," declared Dean happily, starting the engine, then easing the Impala out of the lot and onto the road.

"You're in touch with your inner cave man," griped Sam, "Seriously, 'civilisation' was just a computer game for you, wasn't it? 'Evolution' was just a motorcycle engine."

"Too much civilisation is bad for ya," stated Dean firmly, "Just ask Bobby." He paused. "How the hell do you know about the Evo?"

"I'm Bobby's apprentice Man of Knowledge," Sam intoned portentously. "It's my job to know all sorts of stuff."

"Yeah, well, don't get too cocky, Darth Bitch, he's still the boss Sith," sniffed Dean disdainfully, watching the tail lights disappear in the mirror. "Maybe he's just anticipatin' getting laid."

"Dean!"

"Well, he's been away from home for a few days," Dean went on, "And his pair-bond, his mate, will be so happy to see him, she'll probably run at him backwards…"

"You are disgusting," muttered Sam, shooting a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often) at his big brother.

"There's nothin' disgustin' about informed consenting adults havin' sex, Sam, no matter what age they are," Dean said a bit sniffily. "That's an ageist attitude that I wouldn't expect from you, Mr Enlightenment. There's no reason why people of, shall we say, advancin' years shouldn't enjoy full and satisfying and dare I say it, adventurous sex lives…"

"Dean…"

"Of course, I'd be guessin' that there's no more danglin' from the light fittings, or headstands against the wall, or Let's Pick A Page From The Kama Sutra For Advanced Practitioners."

"Dean…"

"That don't apply to me, naturally, because the Living Sex God is a magnificent specimen, still totally capable of beautiful natural acts, and if you've got a bit of age-related stiffness, well, you can work it to your advantage, there was this one woman last year, remember when my knee was givin' me trouble, but we got two of the seats from her modular sofa and these memory foam cushions…"

"Dean…"

"We had to put down a drop sheet and another sheet, before we deployed the flavoured lube, but…"

"Oh, God…"

"Just because you're goin' a bit grey around the edges is no reason to let your woman down," Dean warned, "Kelly is a class act, Sam, and if you don't step up, well, who knows, she might go lookin' somewhere else."

"Dean…"

"I'm not sayin' she should expect an all-night marathon, but have you ever thought about spicing things up a little bit, you know, something like, say, leaving the lights on?"

"Dean!"

"Because if the laughably short effort you put in last week was anythin' to go by, I mean, the headboard was barely knockin' against the wall…"

"DEAN!" Sam yelled with a scorching _Bitchface_ #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk), "Knock it off!"

"If the springs aint bendin', you're just pretendin'," pronounced the Living Sex God, with one of his astonishingly evocative eyebrow waggles.

"I hate you," growled Sam, turning back to address Rio, who was curled up in the back seat. "Hey, how about tearing this jerk's throat out for me sometime?"

Rio opened one eye, wagged the end of her tail a couple of time, and passed gas audibly.

"Aaaaargh!" yelped Dean, winding down his window, "Don't you dare sic my own dog's ass onto me, bitch!"

"Ahhh, lavender aromatherapy," smiled Sam as the familiar floral fragrance peculiar to Hellhound-bred flatus filled the car. "I feel calmer already."

"Bitch. –Es," muttered Dean, pulling a face like a toddler who's been told that there will be no ice-cream until he eats his cauliflower, turnip and liver mash.

"Where's RJ off to?" asked Sam, content to change the subject now that his brother was suffering.

"Says he's got a job lined up in Oregon," Dean replied. "I asked him if he wanted to head back to the yard, but he said, 'I gotta go deal with a werewolf, Dad, then I'll be right back'."

"Old North wolf?" pressed Sam.

"He says it's a home-grown one," Dean told him, "And that he'll have Connor and Andrew on hand to help, so we don't have to tag along. Huh. 'Tag along', that's actually what he said, 'tag along'."

Sam frowned. "Connor and Andrew? As well as Rex? Since when do Robert John Winchester and his dog need two Old North wolves to deal with a home-grown one?"

"I guess he just wants to be careful," Dean shrugged, "And he said he had intel that suggested that there might be an older female who could be a problem, so they can deal with her, while he deals with the younger one."

"Still," Sam mused, "Rex can take down a male Old North wolf, just like great-great-granddad Jimi, never mind a native one. Does it seem a bit like, well, overkill to you?"

"Accordin' to his intel, the old female can be really nasty," Dean relayed. "Nothin' wrong with bringin' a gun to a knife fight, Sam. The females of the species can be more deadly."

"Dunno why he has to go all the way to Oregon for a job, Connor could handle it with his eyes closed," mused Sam. Then, because he liked to twist the knife just a little bit, he added casually. "Of course, Oregon may hold some other _attraction_ for RJ, what with it bein' the home territory of the Jaeger pack…"

"Shut up," growled Dean, metaphorically donning The Two Crowns of Ancient Egypt hefting the Crook and Flail Of Office, and seating himself upon the Throne of the Two Lands, formally assuming his avatar of Deanopatra, Queen of Denial.

"It never fails to amaze me," Sam went on sunnily, "How the human son of two deities celebrating lust, Aphrodite and the Living Sex God, could pursue a monogamous relationship from such a young age."

Dean muttered something incomprehensible.

Sam never failed to be amused by the way that the Living Sex God was so uncomfortable with the idea that his little boy was now a grown man who did not live like a monk. But he was never quite sure what made him so touchy about the topic: a) the fact that his child was having sex, b) the fact that his child was having sex with a werewolf, or c) the fact that his child was having sex with a werewolf with whose mother Dean had shared a reciprocal cordial loathing for thirty years. "It's just a passing infatuation," asserted Queen Dean, "Like when I thought I was in love with Brenda Watson. You remember Brenda Watson? I remember Brenda Watson. I thought it was love, and I thought it was forever, turned out it was just about the sex..."

"You were fifteen, and it lasted for three whole weeks," Sam pointed out, "And your heartbreak lasted for exactly twelve point five minutes. I timed it. Whereas RJ and Sabine, well, it's no secret they've been a thing for, how many years is it now, it must be…"

"If you don't shut up, I'll put you in the trunk!" snapped Dean.

"Oh, come on!" Sam snapped back, "You like Sabine, don't you?"

"Sure I do, she's a great kid," Dean admitted. "She can hold her own in a fight, she's a damned good shot, her metalwork skills are awesome, she's not scared of a damned thing, she can move her own heavy furniture."

"All the things any guy would look for in a partner," Sam rolled his eyes. "So, what's the problem?"

"You know what the problem is, Sam," Dean practically snarled, "You know _who_ the problem is."

"You are an idiot, you know that?" observed Sam, "You are an absolute idiot. Most parents, they say things like, oh, I just want my kid to find somebody to be happy with, somebody who'll love them and make them happy."

"I do want that," Dean protested, "I'm happy for RJ to find somebody, if that's what he wants from his life. I just don't want it to be somebody related to _her_."

"Well, suck it up," said Sam firmly, "RJ's not a child, you can't tell him what to do. Or who to do," he added with a touch of cheerful malice.

"Bitch." Dean pouted. Then he frowned. "You don't think there's somethin' he's not tellin' us, do ya? About the job. If he's gonna have Connor and Andrew on stand-by, just to deal with a home-grown werewolf, and possibly a grumpy old female."

"Maybe he's planning to deal with the 'home-grown' wolf in Oregon before he does the actual job," suggested Sam, thoroughly enjoying needling his brother. "He's even got a grumpy old female as part of the deal, although she's quite fond of RJ, I dunno what he could possibly do or say that would make her…" He stuttered into silence, and his face assumed an expression that, if Dean had been of a mind to turn and observe it, would've been recognizable as the one meaning that Sam was Working Something Out.

Andrew departed in a state of enhanced Andrewness; the guy had been practically singing to himself.

RJ had been keen to head to Oregon, with his father and uncle travelling in the other direction.

But he would have Andrew and Connor at hand to deal with a potentially angry old female.

While he 'dealt with' a 'home-grown' werewolf.

Whether it was as a result of being Azazel's Special Children, or whether Sam Winchester's brain was just wired to pull pieces of intel together to form a coherent narrative, he found himself suddenly staring at his theory in the manner of a scientist who has just been doodling idly between experiments then looks down to realize that they have invented a weapon that will make a megaton nuke look like a rather disappointing fart in a bathtub. Just like that scientist, he didn't know whether to scream in horror or laugh with glee.

He settled for looking sideways at the intended target, and smiled slowly.

"What?" Dean glanced at his little brother. "What?"

"Nothin'," Sam grinned, looking away, "Just thinking."

"Don't give me that," snapped Dean, "I know that face. You're thinking about something."

"It's just a theory," Sam told him, "And I don't think you want to hear it."

"Out with it, Samantha."

"You're not going to like it."

"I rarely do, when you've got that look on your face."

"Seriously, you're really not going to like it."

"Sam, spill."

"Okay." Sam paused. "You sure about this?"

"Sam…"

"Because you're really, really not going to like it."

"Damn it, bitch, let's hear it."

"Okay. I was just thinking, and I think…"

"Yeah?"

"I really think…"

"Yeah?"

"It's just a theory, but I really think…"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, out with it!"

"I really think…" He leaned ever so slightly sideways and broke wind. "… That the second burrito for lunch was a bad idea."

"AAAAAAAARGH! You filthy bitch! Polluting my car!"

"You were the one who insisted 'out with it', bro."

"That wasn't what I meant, and you know it!"

"It could be worse, at least I don't fart lavender."

"I hate you."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

RJ Winchester was one hundred percent human, but he'd been best friend and occasional Hunt buddy of Connor Jaeger, who was one hundred percent werewolf, for long enough to have picked up a few phrases of Canine. When he arrived in Oregon, he and Sabine went out to sit on the hood of his car, share a box of fried wings between themselves and Rex, and look up at the stars. They talked about his last job, and about her budding career in chemical engineering. They laughed about wishing on a shooting satellite, then he took out the small box containing the modest ring and whuffed the phrase that Andrew had coached him in the previous day.

_Den with me._

* * *

><p>Stand by for spectacular fireworks in three… two… one…<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Still not sure what this bunny's name is; it's a wedding planning bunny, so it probably has a name like Sebastian or Quentin or Tarquin., but I'm open to suggestions.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

The next morning, Sam sent a discreet but concise text query to Andrew.

He received a reply of Andrew's full name, followed by his rank and service number from his Army days.

So Sam spent the next two days wondering how RJ would break the news.

The sensible thing for the young man to do would be to bring his pal Connor with him.

The more sensible thing for the young man to do would be to tell his father by couriered letter.

The most sensible thing for the young man to do would be to tell his father by couriered letter – sent from New Zealand. Or maybe from low orbit, since that elderly yet ridiculously cheerful bearded twerp had his space tourism flights happening.

It could be worse, he thought to himself cheerfully, and it would be for Sabine. At least RJ's unreasonable parent wasn't capable of tearing people limb from limb or throwing small cars at them when really really annoyed.

"What are you grinnin' about?" demanded Bobby as he stumped his way into the kitchen, prodding at Rio with his cane. The dog gave him the big brown eyes, but he frowned at her until she moved. "I'm gettin' too old to be steppin' over something the size o' you, idjit."

"She's just hovering in case of bacon," Sam pointed out, turning back to the stove.

"Well, so am I," grinned Bobby, "So make with the pieces of dead pig."

Sam turned to frown at him. "Didn't Doc Alderton tell you to watch your cholesterol?"

"That's her job," Bobby stated dismissively, "She wants to watch my cholesterol, she can do all the watchin' she likes. It's my job to give her somethin' to watch. Give her job fulfilment. I'm doin' her a favour. Now, let there be bacon! Let there be eggs!"

"Can I get a hallelujah!" chirped Dean, entering the kitchen to drop gracelessly into a chair. "You know how I like mine, honey," he fluttered his eyelashes at his brother.

"Jerk," muttered Sam, reaching for the eggs.

He was just dishing up when they heard the rumble of RJ's Mustang pull into the yard. "Figures," mused Bobby, "That kid has an uncanny talent for turnin' up when there's food bein' served."

A few moments later, Rex came rushing through the door to greet his extended pack, and to join his sister Rio in staring soulfully at them with the opposable thumbs and the bacon.

"Oh, hey, do I smell breakfast?" called RJ cheerfully.

"It's right there," Sam called back. "On the bench. Feel free to cook it yourself." Then, he added. "I'm not your wife."

To the boy's credit, he didn't even blink.

"So, how did that job go, with the werewolf?" asked Dean as RJ seated himself at the table.

"Good," garbled RJ around a mouthful of bacon, "All sorted out."

"Nobody got hurt?" asked Dean.

"Nope," replied RJ.

"Not yet," Sam muttered under his breath.

"You say somethin', Francis?"

"Me? No, just wind," Sam smiled serenely.

Dean gave his brother a dubious look. "Did you need to call in the hairy marshmallow and his pup to deal with the angry female?"

"Nah," drawled RJ.

"Not yet," Sam muttered again. "Just a frog in my throat," he added when Dean gave him a hard stare again.

"Good," grunted Dean, "So, Hunters one, fuglies zero. Good result."

"Actually," RJ continued, "It's that werewolf 'job' I wanted to talk to you about."

"Here it comes," hummed Sam.

"What the hell, bitch?"

"Sorry, bit of egg went down the wrong way."

"The thing is, Dad," RJ put on his most earnest face, "I really went to Oregon because I wanted to see Sabine."

"Yeah?" Dean shovelled in another forkful of pig meat. "How's her job workin' out?"

"It's cool, she used a whole bunch of words I didn't understand, but it sounded important."

"If I'd known, I'd've asked you to take my silvered blades," Dean waved his fork, "Asked you to have her replate 'em. She does good work."

"She sent some silver rounds back with me," RJ volunteered. "Oh, and she sent some walnut brownies, too. Her mom's recipe."

"Yeah?" Dean's face broke into a beautiful smile. "Awesome!"

"She says you have to leave at least one each for Grandpa and Uncle Sammy," RJ added.

"I'll think about it," humphed Dean. "So, ammo and brownies."

"She knows the way to a man's heart," observed Bobby, "Through his stomach, or through his centre of mass."

"What I was gettin' at," Dean waved his fork eloquently once more, "Is that Sabine's a good kid. Even given her parentage. Especially given her parentage."

"I certainly think so," grinned RJ, "And I'm glad you do too. Because while I was there, I was talkin' to her…"

"Is that what kids are callin' it these days," Bobby positively cackled.

"Ignore him," commanded Queen Deanopatra, "He's got recto-visual dementia."

"He's got what?" demanded Sam.

"Any asshole can see he's gone nuts," clarified Dean.

"Yeah, well, we were talkin' last night, watching the stars, and…"

"Aint heard it called that before, either," Bobby chortled.

"Shut up," instructed His Wilfully Ignorant Majesty, "You're clearly only a couple of dead brain cells away from wearing your shorts on your head. What the fuck are you grinnin' at, bitch?"

"Who, me?" trilled Sam, having some sort of Monty Python Biggus Dickus moment as he tried to wipe the smirk from his face.

"Yeah, you," scowled Dean, "You look like the cat that got the cream. Or the cheerleader that got the football team captain. Or that time your science fair project got stolen, and you rigged a small device to make the culprit's project explode, then you won with your fall-back project, yeah, that's exactly the expression you wore then."

"Nope," Sam shook his head, "Nope, no grinning here, no sirree, nobody here but us non-grinners."

"Great," griped Dean, "Insanity is infectious – you've caught it from Bobby."

"Okay, well maybe I'm grinning a bit," Sam admitted. "Because watching the face of the Living Sex God any time somebody says something that suggests that his son might have had sex is just priceless…"

Deanopatra let out a strangled shriek.

"Dad, if it makes you feel any better," RJ broke in, "I can confirm that we did not have sex last night."

Bobby stared at him. "You mean, you actually just sat and talked? A couple of young things like you, you just actually sat and talked?"

"Oh, thank fuck for that," muttered Dean, taking a mouthful of his coffee and stabbing a piece of bacon.

"Yeah," nodded RJ, "We talked. I asked Sabine to marry me, and she said yes."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam had to hand it to his nephew for good timing: breaking news to Dean that he didn't want to hear was best done while his big brother was eating something he really liked, since he was less likely to let ranting disrupt his enjoyment of pieces of dead animal.

At least, that had probably been the theory.

In reality it didn't stop him from spraying a mouthful of coffee all over his breakfast plate and himself.

Bobby let out a whooping noise of unalloyed delight, and hauled himself out of his chair to grab his nephew up in a bear hug. "Oh, that's wonderful!" he enthused, pounding his nephew on the back, "Married! You hear that? Our boy's gettin' married!"

Sam was on his feet and next in line for one of his happy-octopus hugs. "Oh, RJ," he grinned, "That's great news! Dean, isn't that great news?"

Dean sat with his mouth open, forkful of bacon frozen halfway to his mouth. "Nge," he went.

"Just think," chortled Bobby, beaming, "We're gonna have an actual Mrs Winchester!"

"Well, I dunno about that," RJ grinned sheepishly, "I think she'll probably keep her own name, now she's a professional woman."

"She'll be a Mrs Winchester to me, whether she likes it or not," Bobby cackled again, "Oh, this is so excitin'!"

"Meep," went Dean.

"I was wondering if maybe there was some way we could get a message to, you know, my mother," RJ said a little wistfully, "She might like to know."

"There's rituals for makin' supplications unto ancient Greek deities," Bobby assured him, "I'm sure we can at least drop her a memo."

"Gnaaa," went Dean.

"So, have you set a date yet?" pressed Sam.

"Hey, we've only just decided to do the deed!" protested RJ.

"That's not your job anyway," stated Bobby firmly, "The organisin' of the whole shindig, that's Secret Wimmen's Business, that is. Your job is to turn up at the appointed place, at the appointed time, wearin' the appointed clothes, not too hungover. Trust me, the only input required from you will be to say 'Yes, dear' occasionally. Do not, I repeat, do NOT get drawn into discussion about bridesmaids' outfits."

"Yrrrrp," went Dean.

"Well, this calls for celebration," Bobby decided, "I'll get somethin' special outta the stash, just as soon as the sun's over the yardarm. Which it is somewhere, as your father was fond of sayin'." He paused, and looked at Dean, who was still staring into space, bacon halfway to his mouth, and coffee dripping down his chin.

Sam waved a hand in front of his brother's face. "You in there, bro?"

"Ma… ma… marr…" went Dean.

"Come on, bro, you can say it," Sam beamed as annoying as he could, "Your son is getting married!"

"Ma… ma… married?" went Dean.

"You're gonna be a father-in-law!" You're gonna get a daughter-in-law!" Sam enthused. "And RJ's gonna get a mother-in-law!"

The fork flew across the kitchen and embedded itself in the wall. Rio jumped up, and began to eat the piece of bacon that was impaled on it.

"Nice goin', idjit," Bobby muttered to Sam.

"Married?" repeated Dean. "Married? As in… married?"

"Dad?" said RJ, "Are you okay?"

"Oh, he's better than okay, he's awesome!" trilled Sam. "He's just so excited for you that he can't even keep hold of his cutlery!"

"Uh, are you sure about that?" asked RJ doubtfully, watching his father's eyes bug as his mouth moved up and down without any sound coming out.

"Of course I'm sure," said Sam firmly, "I'm his brother, I should know. He's thrilled! Wasn't he just sayin' what a great kid Sabine is?

"But… but… but… she… she… _she_…" The tone of Dean's voice indicated that _she_ wasn't referring to RJ's intended bride.

Sam smiled sunnily. "The term is 'co-mother-in-law'. It isn't in common usage, but it designates the mother of your child's spouse, your child's mother-in-law. So when RJ gets a mother-in-law, so do you, technically speaking, you're gonna be related to…"

"Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" went Dean.

RJ's face held confusion. "But you like Sabine," he said.

"Well, yeah, yeah, sure, yeah," Dean finally found some actual English words, "Sure, I like Sabine, she's a great kid, Sabine I like, she's… she's… she's…"

"I'm gettin' married to Sabine, Dad," RJ said calmly but firmly, "I am marrying Sabine. I'm not marrying Auntie Ronnie."

Perhaps taken aback by the display of maturity in his son, or perhaps just overwhelmed by the idea of being related to _her_, even in-law, Dean's jaw flapped a few more times, then he left the table and headed outside.

"Is Dad angry at me?" asked RJ in a bewildered voice.

"Course he's not," gruffed Bobby, peering out the window to where Dean was pacing in the yard and stabbing at his cell. "He's angry at _her_."

"But… why?" asked RJ.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Because he is a dyed-in-the-wool honest-to-Cas idjit," he pronounced with certainly. "Let him get it out of his system, and get used to the idea. He'll come around – he's your dad, and in the end, what he wants is for you to be happy."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Andrew was washing the frying pan, since Ronnie insisted that even a modern dishwasher was not good for the non-stick surfaces, when the cell on the table buzzed. He saw the ID, so he answered it, carefully holding it away from his ear.

"YOU TREACHEROUS ASSHOLE!" shrieked the voice without preamble. "I'M GONNA SHOOT YOU FULL OF SILVER UNTILTHE QUEEN OF ENGLAND COULD USE YOU AS A TEA STRAINER!"

"Mornin', Dean," he replied, putting the phone on speaker and reaching for a dishcloth.

"YOU KNEW!" the strident association went on. "YOU FUCKING KNEW! YOU SAT THERE AND YOU DIDN'T SAY A DAMNED THING YOU SMIRKING CHEERFUL BASTARD!"

"An uneventful trip back to the yard, I hope," said Andrew.

"Oh yeah," Dean growled, "Oh yeah, completely UNEVENTFUL until RJ got home, and now things have gotten decidedly EVENTFUL!"

"If you're referring to the impending marriage of my daughter to your son, I can only tell you that I couldn't hope for a better man for my little girl," Andrew told him, glancing out the window. A wheelbarrow sailed past at eye level. "I will be proud to call him son-in-law."

"DON'T YOU DARE GO ALL CALM AND ZEN ON ME, YOU LONG-HAIRED OLD HIPPY!" Dean yodelled in outrage. "And what the FUCK are you doin' answerin' _her_ phone?"

"Well, she's kinda, you know," Andrew watched a garden gnome that had been a joke birthday present many years ago hurtle through the air, and hoped that it smashed when it landed. "Her opposable thumbs aren't at their best right now."

"Put her on," he snarled, "You put her on RIGHT NOW, you asshole!"

"She's, uh," a large sleeper whizzed past the window. "She's talking with Sabine."

"I DON'T CARE IF SHE'S CUTTING OFF HER OWN DICK, PUT HER ON!"

"Okay." Andrew finished drying the frying pan, then picked up the phone, and sauntered out the the back yard.

"You need a hand?" he asked Connor, who was under the hood of his truck.

"Nah," he son shook his head, "It's just the distributor, it'll be a quick fix, if I can take your truck to get a repla-"

They both paused and ducked as a garden bench flew overhead.

"Sure," agreed Andrew, heading for the furthest end of the yard, where his wife and daughter were having some girls' talk.

Sabine wasn't a pup anymore: she was grown, and had left her dam's den to start her own life, and her own career. As a woman, she was an intelligent, educated young professional, with a blossoming career. As a werewolf, she was alpha material, not yet come into her prime, but getting there.

Ronnie was an old grey-muzzle, well past her prime, but still capable of giving an alpha male a fair bout.

And the thing about werewolf girl talk, like any canine 'conversation', is that it can be quite… physical.

"Ronnie, phone," Andrew waggled the cell, "It's Dean."

The older werewolf turned to snarl at him, at the phone, and at the universe in general.

"Ronnie?" demanded Dean Winchester's voice from the speaker, "Is that you?"

She snarled again, lip curling at the phone.

"Don't you take that tone with me!" Dean was clearly yelling at his end.

Ronnie rumbled dangerously.

"You can take your 'tude and shove it, bitch!"

Ronnie roared, claws flexing.

"I'll just put it here, okay?" Andrew propped the phone against a fence railing. "I'll leave you two to it."

"Ohhhh, I aint finished with you, mister," Dean rumbled as dangerously as Ronnie, and the narrowing of his mate's eyes suggested to Andrew that she would have further words to say to him on the topic later, "But right now, I got bigger fish to fry. Or at least, a bigger WOLF to SKIN…"

Ronnie growled, eyeing the phone like she'd rather be biting its head off and devouring its still-beating heart.

"Yeah, you heard me!" Dean shrieked. "This is all your fault!"

The angry response made the fence shake.

"Don't give me that, of course it is!"

There was more threatening rumbling.

"Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Well, bring it, you cow! We'll see whose arthritis kicks in first!"

Sabine shifted back to human, and joined her father, leaving her mother to rage at the phone as Dean's outraged yowling issued from it., barely more coherent than Ronnie. "Sounds like he's taking it as well as she is," she observed wistfully.

Andrew put a reassuring arm around his daughter. "She'll come around," he assured her, "You know how much she likes RJ, she just needs a bit of time to get used to the idea of being related to the Winchesters, even by marriage."

"Have they always been like this?" Sabine sounded a bit despairing.

"Oh, they love to loathe each other," her father observed, "It's been something they've enjoyed for a long time now. And they do say that it's important for us seniors to have hobbies."

"Other people's moms do scrapbooking, or quilting," Sabine sighed.

"Well, your mother isn't exactly like other moms," Andrew reminded her. "Come on, let's go in. Have you given any thought to what you might wear?"

"Not yet, really."

"Not white, obviously, let's face it, you wouldn't be fooling anyone…"

Daaaaaad!"

"I'm just teasing you," he smiled, "Come on, leave your mother to get it out of her system. Hey," he called to his pair-bond, who was still raging at the phone like a religious conservative berating somebody they suspect of having sex for fun rather than procreation. "Don't forget to hang up when you finish, I gotta have enough data left to download my porn for the month."

She snatched up the garden gnome again and hurled it at him. He sidestepped deftly as it landed, and smashed into a dozen pieces. Satisfied that even the darkest cloud can have a silver tint to the lining, he went back inside with Sabine.

* * *

><p>Much firework! Wow! Such sparkly! Very colour! So chrysanthemum! Many whoosh! Amaze! The Pyrotechnician has outdone himself. What will it be like when they have to be civil in front of other people? Whatever will they have to do to make their kids' big day trouble-free?<p>

Ah, Deanopatra and Neferonnie, queens of denial. The bunny dictated a nice long chapter, so feed it reviews, because Reviews are the Hippos Swamping Their Barges As They Row Up The River Of Fanfiction!


	5. Chapter 5

The plot bunny (whose name, according to LeeMarieJack, is Jaqueline-Joyce, aka Jackie-Joy) suddenly popped out and dictated another chapter, so I dropped what I was doing and started writing. Then the little... so-and-so disappeared again. Probably gone to tie ribbons around bombonniere somewhere.

And a 'sleeper' refers to the very large slab of wood that used to be placed underneath railway lines, but are largely replaced by cement blocks these days. Professor Google informs me that our Murkan cousins Up There refer to them as 'railway ties'. (Fanfic: it's great for expanding your vocab.) Using them to build retaining walls or construct raised garden beds is common; hurling them at the father of your daughter's fiancé, not so frequent. (Although Ronnie was pretty worked up - we know that she can flip small cars when she's annoyed, so chucking a small camping trailer would be plausible, if not terribly prudent.)

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

_t minus ten months_

"I don't wanna do this," grumbled Dean, his face assuming an expression that was practically a Sam Winchester Trademarked Bitchface™.

"Well, you have to," Sam replied serenely, "An engagement party is traditional."

"So is demanding a dowry from the bride-to-be's family," said Dean, "But you wouldn't let me do that."

"Dean," Sam growled, giving his brother an authentic _Bitchface_ #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?), "As much as you don't wanna hear this, I think that, just for tonight, you're gonna have to behave like an adult. Admittedly, I know you have trouble with that," he went on, "Even given that you are now si-"

"Don't say it!" yelped Dean.

"What I'm getting at," Sam rolled his eyes, "Is that you are old enough to behave in an adult fashion –

even if it's just pretending. I mean, this is your son, Dean! This is RJ! Don't you dare do anything to embarrass him! You're supposed to be happy for him!"

"I won't!" Dean protested, "I am!"

"Well, it's time you started acting like it, and let go of this stupid feud that you've cultivated with the mother of the groom for all these years," Sam pronounced. "You're supposed to be showing your love and support for your children, not making them wonder if it's safe for both of you to be under the same roof at once."

"Shstrtdt," mumbled Dean.

"What?" queried Sam.

"Shstrtdt," Dean repeated his resentful mantra.

"You wanna try that with a few vowels this time?" asked Sam sourly.

"She started it!" snapped Dean.

"Huh?" Sam boggled at his brother, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said," stated Dean. "She started it."

Sam gawped at his brother.

"She did!" Dean insisted. "After Joni chose her. She kept updatin' Bobby on what her super-genius dog could do. Ooooh, she lit up her first grave on command with half-Hellhound pee when she was just four months old, ooooh, she took down her first rugaru when she was eight months old, ooooh, she pulled the arms off her first wendigo when she was just twelve months old, oooh, my pup can fetch my knife, my pup can fetch my gun, my pup can fetch a flashlight, my pup can get me a beer, my pup can shut the goddamned fridge afterwards…"

"I don't believe this!" Sam cut in, "I don't believe I'm listening to this! Jesus, Dean, that was, what, Jimi Senior's puppies were born more than thirty years ago!"

"She didn't have to be so high and mighty about it," Dean complained.

"Ronnie had years of experience training dogs before then," Sam spoke through clenched teeth, "And she has the added advantage of speaking Canine fluently. She's told you that herself. And Jimi turned out to be a superb Hunter's dog, he might've been a late bloomer, but he was magnificent."

"She didn't have to rub it in," Dean growled, "She didn't have to send pictures to Bobby all the time!"

"Oh, not like you then," Sam commented earnestly, "Because you never, ever sent a picture of Jimi to Bobby to put on the fridge, like the proud parent of a kid who's just managed to pull the tablecloth off by himself and eat the leaves off the aspidistra in the living room…"

"You always take her side!" Dean accused, "Why do you always take her side? I'm your brother!"

"I don't always take her side," Sam countered, "You have no idea, _no idea_, how often I've wanted to bang both your heads together, because you're as bad as each other! That's what it is, isn't it?" he mused. "You have so much in common: you're a pair of hotheads who had to make your own way as Hunters from too young, you'd both rather shoot first and ask questions later, no, I take that back, you'd both rather shoot first and not bother to ask questions at all, your answer to any problem is to grab a bigger calibre weapon or just decapitate it on general principles… you both hate the fact that you've run into a Hunter who could, half the time in a fair fight, kick your ass; you're a couple of alphas who refuse to get along, because the other won't roll over and bare its throat." He chuckled. "Plus, she's completely immune to the charm of the Living Sex God, and that just burns your biscuits until they're charcoal, doesn't it?"

"It aint normal," snarled Dean, "Because she aint normal! She's a werewolf, Sam! She's a fugly!"

"So's her daughter," Sam replied brutally. "Who has been chosen by your son to be his wife. Your daughter-in-law. She will be the mother of your grandchildren, so you'd better…"

Dean stomped on the brakes, and the car came squealing to a halt. He turned to offer his brother a stricken look, and Sam immediately felt remorse for his ruthlessness.

"Sam, this is RJ," he said in a small voice, "This is my boy, this is RJ, this is…" he gave Sam an anguished look, and Sam could help but laugh a little.

"Dean, you are not losing RJ," he said, "This is not some sort of competition. Ronnie did not intentionally set out to conceive a female pup for the express purpose of scheming to take your boy away from you. You are not losing your son – you will never lose your son! You are _gaining_ family, not losing it! Hey, come on, you like Sabine. And won't it be great to have such a good metalworker in the family? She's at least as good as her mother. Plus, she's got a college education."

"You say that like it's a good thing," Dean muttered.

"Of course it's a good thing," Sam huffed, "It's what she wants to do. She's got a foothold in normality, and she wants to share that with RJ."

"He's a Hunter, Sam," Dean said, a mixture of pride and sadness in his voice, "We don't get normality."

"Says who?" demanded Sam. "Show me where it's written. If RJ and Sabine think they can have a little piece of it together, then good for them."

Dean sighed, and let his head fall forwards until it rested on the steering wheel. "When I look at RJ, there are days when I still see a toddler who need somebody to kiss it better when he falls over and scrapes a knee, and now you want me to be all calm about the fact that he's gettin' _married_?"

"Yep," confirmed Sam, "That's exactly what you're supposed to do. Pups leave the den, regardless of species."

Dean put the car into gear, and eased Baby back up to speed. "All right, all right," he grumbled, "I'll play nice. For now."

"Good."

"I'll be on my best behaviour."

"Okay."

"I'll even be polite to the mother of the bride."

"Outstanding."

"Even if she provokes me, my response will be polite."

"Glad to hear it."

"Yeah, you'd be amazed at how politely I can punch somebody."

"I give up, you jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The celebration was being held in Montana (considered 'neutral territory' about halfway between the bride and groom's homes) at a modest guest house run by the family of one of the many female acquaintances that Bobby seemed to have across the country. Sam joined Andrew as they watched the crowd, mostly of RJ and Sabine's friends, swirl and eddy around the happy couple.

"So, did you read Dean the riot act, or did Bobby?" Andrew asked quietly.

"Both of us, I think," Sam replied, "Why do you ask?"

"Because of the way he's just standing there," Andrew said, "And conspicuously behaving himself."

"About time," Sam grunted, "Your assertion of Alphaness appears to have been effective."

"It almost wasn't," Andrew admitted, "She was on four legs up until twenty minutes before kick-off. The proprietor came to ask if we had an extra dog in the room. Seriously, you'd think that Dean was the criminal mastermind behind a terrorist plot to kidnap her daughter and drag her off to get married to somebody on Mars. I can't even blame it on hormones anymore. Not if I want to keep my head attached to my shoulders."

"Well, now we're here, let's hope they'll behave for the kids," Sam sighed, taking in the sight of the woman who would be Sabine's Matron of Honour perform a ked stand. "Fuck me, did we ever drink like that?"

"Don't forget, a lot of these kids have been to college," grinned Andrew, "They may not be Hunters, but they know a thing or two about drinking."

"At least she's tied something around her skirt," Sam observed, watching Sabine's friend get both feet back on the ground, as another young woman took her place. "I guess some things never change. It's kind of good to see 'em havin' a good time, I suppose, even if their livers might not… oh my God!"

"Let it go," suggested Andrew, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"What the hell is she doing?" demanded Sam.

"Keg stand, dude," Andrew pointed out the obvious as Sam's daughter Frankie took her turn to upend herself over the keg. "Unsupported, too, you should be proud, that takes balance."

Sam shrugged off his hand, and made his way to the keg, where the chanting of 'Keg! Keg! Keg!' was almost drowned out by the whooping and clapping as well as the music.

"Frankie!" he yelped as his daughter lowered herself from the handstand to applause.

"Hey, Dad!" she beamed up at him and wiped her mouth.

"What the hell were you doing?" he yapped at her.

"Keg stand, obviously," she replied. "You want a turn?" she added, as the crowd yelled 'Next!'

"Frankie, I am your father," Sam raised his voice over the music to make himself heard, "It is in no way appropriate for somebody my age to be doin' keg stands!"

"Don't tell me you think you're past it," she grinned cheekily, the dimples she'd inherited showing.

"It's got nothing to do with me bein' past it," he shot back, "It's got everything to do with me being your father here! I mean, what would your mother think if she saw you do that?" He turned around to gesture at the keg. "Just what exactly do you think she'd say if she saw you…" his mouth dropped open.

"Come on, Dad," chuckled Frankie, "Who do you think taught me?"

Sam's voice came out as an outraged squeak. _"Oh my God Kelly what the fuck are you doing?"_

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They managed to avoid each other for a while, but eventually the mixing of the crowd brought into proximity the Hunters who went together like peaches and pickles, like lipstick and pig, like gasoline and matches.

"Oh, er, gday, Dean," Ronnie managed pleasantly enough.

"Uh, hi, Ronnie," his teeth-clenching smile matched hers. "Fancy bumping into you here. Ha ha."

"Ha ha," she agreed. "So," she gestured around, "The, er, young people seem to be having fun."

"Yes, yes," Dean nodded. "Fun. They are having it."

"It's good to have fun," Ronnie said. "At a party."

"Yes, it's what parties are for," Dean said.

They stood awkwardly for a minute or so.

"So," Ronnie asked brightly, "How is your car?"

"She's good," Dean replied, "She's runnin' real good."

"That's good," Ronnie said.

"How's your truck?" Dean enquired.

"Oh, it's good too, yes, it's good," she nodded.

There was more awkward silence.

"The beer is cold," Dean observed, studying the one in his hand.

"Oh, yes, very cold," Ronnie agreed, "Nice and cold."

"The coolers are holding the temperature well," he commented.

"Yes," Ronnie smiled a little desperately, "The, er, ice had hardly melted at all."

"The insulation in those things must be quite high tech."

"Oh, yes, it's marvellous what they can do with synthetic materials these days."

"What will they think of next, ha ha ha."

"Ha ha ha, goodness me, what will it be, yes."

"Wouldn't want warm beer," Dean intoned.

"No, no, definitely not," she concurred earnestly.

"Warm beer is just wrong," he stated.

"Absolutely," Ronnie added.

"And weird."

"Very weird indeed."

"Yeah, totally… weird." Dean looked around again. "Oh, is that Kelly doing a keg stand?"

"From the look on Sam's face," Ronnie cocked her head, "I'd say so. Frankie did one before."

"Her mom taught her, you know," Dean informed her.

"It's the college education," Ronnie shrugged. "They learn how to do the darnedest things, these educated people."

"Hey, I can keg stand, and I didn't go to college!" protested Dean.

"I didn't say you couldn't," Ronnie shot back, "What I said, was, learning to do keg stands seems to be a part of the curriculum, if you do go."

"RJ coulda gone," Dean stated, "But he didn't want to. 'Not much use for a degree in Huntin', Dad', he said," he added proudly.

"Connor was the same," Ronnie answered. "It's not for everybody."

"Dunno where Sam got the smarts from," Dean shrugged, "From Dad's side of the family, I guess." Then, because he couldn't help himself, he added, "Like your two."

Ronnie actually laughed. "Oh, Andrew will tell you, they got that from me," she chuckled, "After all, I was almost the intellectual in the family."

"An intellectual?" Dean couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice, "You? An intellectual? Are you kidding me?"

She turned and stared at him. "Before I was bitten, I received a scholarship offer to study engineering at the University of Melbourne," she said.

"Yeah?" he waved a hand airily, "What do they do, build turbo-charged kangaroos, or somethin'? Use high-precision drill presses to hang corks off the brims of hats? Oh, oh, I know, they're doin' research into how to build a better koala!"

Ronnie gave him a hard look. "It's only one of the most demanding courses at Australia's most prestigious university," she sniffed, "I wouldn't expect you to understand. Mr G.E.D," she muttered.

"Hey!" Dean yapped, "I didn't get to graduate from high school because I was Hunting with my Dad from so early! I missed a lot of school!"

"So did I, in fact," she reminded him, "And I never got to go to my end-of-year Year 12 Speech Night, because I was on a Hunt with him." Then, unable to resist twisting the knife, she added, "My sisters accepted my studies prizes for me."

"Are you sayin' you think I'm stupid?" demanded Dean.

"No," Ronnie answered pleasantly, "What I am saying is that I'm more intelligent than you." She paused. "Although if you do ask me directly if I think you are actually stupid, I promise to give you a direct answer. It'll be very short, so you're bound to be able to handle it."

The empty can crumpled in Dean's hand.

"You are, without doubt, a complete smartass," he growled.

"Maybe I'm just playing to my audience," she growled back.

"I knew I shoulda filled you with silver the first time I saw you shift," Dean snapped.

"Oh, yeah?" Ronnie scoffed. "You and whose army?"

"Me and my left armee," Dean waved the appropriate limb, "And my right armee. I could still totally kick your ass, Shepherd."

"What?" Ronnie yapped irritably. "You? Ha! Do you know, you are unquestionably the most arrogant bastard I have ever met."

"It's not arrogance if it's just sayin' what's true," he smirked.

"Gaaah!" Ronnie let out a noise of annoyance. "God, why didn't Sam squash you ages ago? If you were my brother, I'd poison your beer!"

"If you were my sister, I'd drink it!" he fired back. "And as soon as you're my co-mother-in-law, I might just poison myself!"

"Your… what?" Ronnie looked mystified.

"Aha!" Dean sneered in triumph. "It means, the mother of my child's spouse, or my child's mother-in-law. It's a common expression. Everybody knows it. Except for you, apparently. Not so smart now, are ya, huh?"

"Mongrel!"

"Asshole!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Just as the party was being held on neutral territory, so it had been decided by the bride-to-be and groom-to-be that the minimum obligatory speeching should be done by Bobby, as honorary senior Winchester and the one person that would not take any crap from the co-parents-to-be. He called for quiet, and the incumbent keg stander resumed her feet.

"I hadn't finished!" complained Sister Felicity Morgan, Dean and Sam's older sister, as she adjusted her nun's habit.

"Well now you have," instructed Bobby, clearing his throat. "What are you doin' pullin' that stunt, anyway? You're a damned nun!"

"My vows were poverty, obedience and chastity," complained Sister Fic, "I don't remember anything about sobriety."

"Idjits," he shook his head, surveying the crowd, "You're all idjits. Anyway, I'll keep this short, since there's apparently a lot more drinkin' to do…" he received ragged cheers for that. "So, we're here today to celebrate the impendin' hitching of RJ and Sabine. Now, her father tells me that this is where I should tell stories from their childhoods, with the intention of embarrassin' 'em, but if I did that I'd be here all night, so instead, I'll just say that I'm pleased to welcome Sabine into our family, and happy to see RJ become a part of hers. So, ladies an' gentlemen – and you educated college types too, yeah, I'm keepin' an eye on you – I ask you to charge your glasses, and… Fic, stay the hell away from the keg, use a glass like everybody else… so, charge your glasses, and…"

There was a crash, then a thump, then a tangle of limbs fell through a line of potted ficus and rolled across the grass, which caused a certain amount of confusion amongst the guests.

"Mom!" yelped Sabine.

"Dad!" yipped RJ.

"Oh, balls," muttered Bobby.

"It's okay, everybody," Sabine's older brother Connor announced calmly, as the two grappling forms rolled back the other way, "This is part of the engagement celebration." He elbowed Sam. "Right?"

"Dean! Huh?" Sam looked around wildly. "Oh, oh, yeah, it's, uh, it's, it's…"

"It's an old Australian tradition," Connor said firmly.

"Yeah," Sam nodded rapidly, "It's an old Australian tradition, when a couple get engaged, the, er, the father of the groom has to, uh, wrestle with the mother of the bride, in order to, in order to…"

"In order to ascertain whether the males of the groom's family will be able to handle the women of the bride's family," Andrew supplied. "It goes way back to the start of European settlement in Australia, because the place was mostly settled by criminals, and it was entirely possible that the lady of the house would have to pull her husband into line for his own good if he drank too much."

The wrestling, growling co-parents staggered upright – "Smartass cow!" "Smug bastard!" – then grappled, fell over again, and rolled back across the grass.

"Naturally, in the 1800s, it was considered unseemly to let an unmarried woman wrestle with a man before they got married," Andrew went on, "So this tradition began as a way to estimate the likely compatibility of a couple, without the young people having to get too close together, and, you know, possibly compromise their, uh, dignity."

"Whereas we can confidently assume that, in this case, neither the mother of the bride nor the father of the groom have any dignity left to lose," Sam added through clenched teeth, "If indeed they ever had any to start with."

The pair of co-parents used some more cuss-words, grabbed at each other anew, and rolled away into the darkness. The gathering of guests gave them a round of applause.

"So," Bobby called everybody's attention back to the matter at hand, "I think that we've established that if push comes to shove, a Jaeger can take the bottle away from a Winchester…"

"Like hell! _Oof_!" came the outraged protestation from the darkness.

"Ow! _Ow!_ You pulled my _hair_!" an angry shriek followed it. "He pulled my _hair_!"

"…And so," Bobby raised his voice and made a mental note to use the word 'idjit' with extreme prejudice later in the night, "It gives me great pleasure to ask you to charge your glasses, and raise them to toast RJ and Sabine. To the happy couple!"

After the toast, Sam drained his glass, then put it down and turned away.

"Hey, where are you goin'?" asked Andrew, "You can't be turning in already."

"I'm not - I need another drink," Sam answered glumly, "In fact, I need more alcohol than I can fit in a glass."

Andrew smiled. "Hey, if you're gonna open another bottle of that bubbly, and you decide you need help..."

"A bottle isn't big enough either," Sam griped, "But I will need help, so come and give me a hand. Frankie, get off the damned keg, it's my turn."

* * *

><p>Ah, family occasions. Always good for a laugh at somebody else's expense.<p>

Send little Jackie-Joy lovely crunchy reviews to eat, because she dictated a lovely long chapter for you, and Reviews Are The Hilarious Beer Bong Mishaps At The Party Of Life!*

*Down Here, if you hear somebody refer to a 'fruit bat', it's not a man who cultivates a flamboyant manner, or a goth person: it means hanging upside down from a tree branch, a fence or a roof girder by your knees and drinking a beer upside down. That's fun too. Especially hilarious in formal clothes.


	6. Chapter 6

FINALLY, Jackie-Joy the wedding planner plot bunny speaks up again. Let's hope she keeps dictating...

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

_Montana, t minus three days_

Gary Parsonage had been working in the Sheriff's office for a very long time, and had arrived at a point where, by virtue of his length of service, he was genuinely entitled to use a number of clichéd lines in the course of his duties, including (but not limited to) I've Seen It All Before, That's It The World's Finally Gone Completely Mad, and as his retirement approached, I'm Getting Too Old To Have To Deal With This Sort Of Crap.

Unfortunately, as he had become more senior in the office, he had become something of a go-to man when something needed fixing up, sorting out, bedding in, blowing off or, in a couple of memorable instances, blowing up. When something cropped up that left his colleagues gawping in bemusement, nine times out of ten, they would say to each other, why don't we leave it with Gary, he's Seen It All Before.

He was glaring at the computer screen in front of him as if it had insulted him personally. Which it had, in his humble opinion; he'd done his job for a very long time without having to fill in these things called 'metrics', which as far as he was concerned was what Canadians used when they were cooking and if they wanted to do that well good luck to 'em but they had no place clogging up his working day with spreadsheets that the 'resource deployment monitoring team' and 'service quality management coordinators' (and didn't they just sound like something that should be shot and tied to the fender) demanded that he complete every week.

It seemed to Gary that it hadn't been that long ago that 'resource deployment monitoring' had consisted of Deputy Coulson unexpectedly spending a day on the job at the pointy end to make sure you were doing what you were supposed to, and 'service quality management' meant old Sheriff Ross himself meeting you quietly in the carpark and telling you to get your shit together if you weren't pulling your weight. It was a Sheriff's office, for fuck's sake: everybody who actually worked there knew what was going on, it was only the faceless spreadsheet addicts who had no frigging idea who needed to be told in numbers who was or wasn't doing what.

Gary had a sudden mental picture of grabbing the nearest desk jockey and dragging them along for a day on the road, to see what those numbers couldn't possibly explain. Like how serving a warrant could take an hour, if the circumstances demanded it. Or that a couple of kids with a bottle of booze stolen from somebody's parents could in many cases be most effectively dealt with by taking them home to face the music, which would be at least as bad as anything the law could formally do. Whenever people were involved, which was ninety-nine percent of the time, human beings just didn't behave like numbers. They behaved like people, and that was a whole lot more complicated than any column of numbers could possibly express.

He saw a Deputy's face appear around the door, wearing an expression that was half sheepish and half amused, and let out a sigh. "What now, Jenny?"

"They're back again," she told him, trying to stifle a smile."

"They? Who's they?" asked Gary.

"Mr Montague and Mrs Capulet," Jenny's grin won, and broke across her face.

Gary let out a groan. "Oh, God," he looked at his watch, "I'm not actually even here. My shift doesn't start for another hour. I'm just catchin' up on some paperwork."

"You look pretty solid to me," she remarked.

"You watch your mouth," he sniffed, getting up from his desk, "With remarks like that, you'll have us all back in Equity and Diversity refresher training."

"Hey, I said you looked 'solid', not 'fat'," she protested, cocking her head. "Although it's pretty clear that Alice has been feeding you well…"

'Shut up before I make an 'I' statement," he instructed her. "So, what were they doing this time?"

"Same again," she shrugged, "Loitering, then affray."

Muttering direly unto any deity that was silly enough to be hanging around an listening in, Gary took a moment to check some info, then he locked the PC (he'd only walked away and had his screen saver set to a cow in a bikini once, but that had been enough), put on his game face, and went to the holding cells.

He heard them before he saw them, one accented voice and one with a hint of Kansas twang, sitting together on the uncomfortable bench, sniping at each other like a couple of kids outside the headmaster's office blaming each other for getting caught in a joint enterprise shenaningans.

"… your fault, you bloody loon! What the hell were you doing?"

"What was I doing? What was_ I_ doing? This from the woman who was lurking in the bushes?"

"I wasn't lurking! I was just keeping an eye on them!"

"Huh, well, it looked like lurking to _me_."

"That's only because _you_ were lurking!"

"I was NOT lurking! I aint a lurker! I do NOT lurk!"

"Well, whatever the hell you were doing, why did you have to do it in my shrubbery?"

"How was I supposed to know it was your shrubbery?"

"Because I was ALREADY THERE, you wanker!"

"Oh, excuse me, Your Majesty Queen Of The Roadside Bushes, for daring to intrude on your territory…"

"Grrrrrrrrrr…"

"Don't you bare you teeth at me, you cow – you were spyin' on my boy!"

"Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Well, what were you doing,_ lurking_, spying on my daughter?"

"It wasn't spyin', I was just makin' sure that she didn't get, you know, untidy."

"Untidy?"

"Yeah, you know, untidy, I know about batchelorettes' nights, I've watched enough 'Girls Gone Wild' to know how those things can pan out. And I WASN'T lurking!"

"You dirty old bastard, following a group of young women around. Huh, Living Sex God my arse, Sad Old Pervert is more like it."

"I aint old!"

"Sure you are, last birthday you turned si-"

"DON'T YOU SAY IT! Huh, you're older than me anyway!"

"If I'm Queen Of The Shrubbery, then you're Cleopatra, Queen of Denial. Deanopatra."

"Well, what were you doin, then?"

"I just wanted to make sure that the whole buck's night thing didn't get out of hand, and RJ didn't get his hair dyed green, or put on plane to Lichtenstein or something, I don't want my little girl's big day to be ruined."

"Hey, it's RJ's big day too, you know."

"Bullshit. A wedding is All About The Bride. It's her Big Day. She's the one who gets to play dress-ups, and be a princess for the day. All the groom has to do is turn up on time not too hungover with both eyebrows intact."

"Wow, repressive patriarchal conditioning much? Are you sure you're from the same country as Germaine Greer?"

"What the fuck did you just say?"

"Shut up, I've read Greer. I was laid up, and it was 'The Female Eunuch', or the Gideon's Bible, and I've read that. He dies in the end, you know."

"Well, if she wants to be a beautiful princess for just a single day, then I'll do whatever it takes to make sure she gets that, and I will not let anything get in the way of it!"

"Bridesmomzilla – who'da thunk it?"

"Says him who was lurking in the bushes watching women young enough to be his daughters…"

"Hey, I was doin' you a favour, guardin' against strippers."

"Strippers? What strippers?"

"You know, male strippers, where the women get drunk and scream and then bump and grind and get lap danced by guys on steroids wearin' change purses."

"No, no, definitely not, that's a guy thing. The guys get strippers and lap dances. Which is why your son and his mates went into that bar called 'Raunch', don't you deny it on their behalf…"

"What planet are you from, huh? Exactly what planet, in what galaxy, are you from? Because if you think your precious little daughter took her pals into that bar called 'Throb' just to check out the décor, I can report that you are sadly mistaken!"

"What?!"

"Yeah, you shoulda seen this guy called 'Jack Hammer', you can't tell me there wasn't an extra pair of socks in that change purse…"

"You _followed them in_? You, you, you disgusting creature!"

Shaking his head, Gary tuned out their arguing, made a phone call, then stepped out of the corridor and consulted the notes, letting his annoyance show.

It was the same guy and the same woman, both old enough to know better, in his opinion. His shirt was torn; her hair was coming out of its braid. When they saw him, their faces took on expressions that were the mixture of background defiance, general lack of repentance and resignation that could be found on those kids caught red-handed under the bleachers with Dad's bottle of cheap whiskey.

"What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from our morning's rest?" he asked them.

They looked at him blankly.

"So, neither of you are fans of The Bard?" he queried.

They looked at each other. "Is that a band?" asked the guy.

"Nope, Romeo and Juliet," Gary sighed, looking down at the clipboard. "So, Mr Winchester, and Mrs Shepherd…"

"Ms!" the woman corrected him like a grumpy bee.

"I beg your pardon, Mzzz Shepherd," he smiled serenely, "So, here we are. Again."

They had the grace to look slightly abashed.

"Now, a couple of the children who work here tell me…" he consulted the clipboard, "That you were picked up, let me see, here it is, 'having a brawl in the median strip vegetation in the entertainment precinct'." He peered at them. "Would either of you care to fill me in about that? Oh, and just so you know," he nodded pleasantly to Dean, "If you say 'She started it', I will be unhappy."

Dean had been about to say something, then paused, clearly rethinking his approach. "I was… just checking," he said firmly.

"Checking?" Gary cocked an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Dean went on dismissively, "Just checking. To make sure that the girl who's gonna marry my son didn't do anything, you know, inappropriate, to spoil the day." Beside him, Ronnie let out a noise of disbelief.

"And what were you doing?" Gary asked her.

"I was just keeping an eye on his son," Ronnie jerked a thumb at Dean, "To make sure they didn't do anything that would mess with the wedding."

"Ah, yes, the wedding," Gary nodded, "That would be the wedding to be taking place at the guest house in a couple of days, right? The guest house where you were picked up a week ago for, let me see, yeah, it's here, 'affray in a flower bed'." He looked at them with curiosity. "Could you just remind me what the two or you were doing wandering around in the gardens in the wee small hours?"

"Checking the venue for suitability," Dean answered promptly, while Ronnie nodded vigorously.

"In the middle of the night?" pressed Gary.

"We're druids," Ronnie said, "We have to check the earth energies at night."

"Yeah, totally," Dean nodded, "If the earth energies aint right, well, our kids clearly can't get hitched there."

"Earth energies, huh?" mused Gary. "So, that would be why you were rollin' around on it, I guess."

"That was a symbolic act of union," Ronnie told him. "To please the Earth Mother."

"It's a druid thing," added Dean.

"Symbolic act?" Gary tried to keep the disbelief out of his face.

"Well, it had to be _symbolic_, didn't it?" Dean practically rolled his eyes, "I mean, if we'd _actually_ been doin' the horizontal hula there in the garden bed, that would be illegal."

"The Deputy here observed that it looked more like a wrestling match than any, uh, symbolic depiction of the conjugal act," Gary frowned.

Dean smiled the Killer Smile. "Hey, if she thought it looked too vigorous, she's been goin' out with the wrong guys…"

"Skunks!" Ronnie said suddenly. "We had to check for skunks too, that's easier at night."

"Ah, skunks are your totem creature?" asked Gary guilelessly.

"Hers, definitely," Dean sniffed disdainfully at Ronnie, who actually growled.

"And weasels," she added, "They're his spirit guide, you know. You only have to look at him to know that. I don't want any damned skunks or weasels running through the ceremony at the dramatic moment. It'd screw up the feng shui something awful."

"Don't mess with the feng shui," intoned Dean solemnly, "If it aint right, you can just put your karma between your knees, and kiss your chi goodbye."

"I see," muttered Gary, consulting the notes; Jenny had written 'GOM' and 'GOW' in large capitals, and underlined the acronyms for Grumpy Old Man and Grumpy Old Woman twice. "So, a week ago, you were simulating symbolic sex in the garden bed, as some sort of religious observance, apparently taking in half a dozen different spiritual belief systems from around the world, and now you've moved your symbolic sex to a median strip. Taking your faith to the masses, or just a bout of exhibitionism? It matters, because the bean-counters will want me to enter the right codes into the paperwork. We got one for 'lewd act', but I'm not sure what to put for 'symbolic sex act'. Maybe if I take the one for 'lewd act' and the one for 'unauthorised advertising' and add them together…"

They both had the grace to look abashed. "No, that was a fight," admitted Dean.

Gary, who had in fact Seen It All Before, sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look," he began, "I don't know what crawled up your asses to make you wanna start swingin' at each other in public – you are both old enough to know better, according to your DOBs you're both in your si-"

"Don't say it!"

" – But whatever it is, you gotta put a lid on it until your kids are hitched. I mean, how would they feel if Mom and Dad weren't there, because they were in custody, waiting to explain their symbolism to the judge? And just between me and you, she's had no time for this sort of thing since her youngest moved back home," he added conspiratorially.

The two culprits exchanged a wordless glance.

"I've seen my eldest boy married, and walked two daughters down the aisle," Gary told them, "And I know all about acquirin' a parent-in-law for you kid who you might not like very much. My advice to you is to suck it up. This isn't about you. It's about your children. And if they're making each other happy, then you don't have any right to make things awkward for 'em, no matter how much you think the other deserves to have their little red wagon broke."

"He sounds like Bobby," Ronnie whispered out the side of her mouth.

"So," Gary glared at them, "Understanding as I do that these occasions can be a time of stress, I am prepared to release you both on an undertaking of good conduct, but I warn you, if I see either of you in here again, I will have you charged with Acting Like Idiots At And Advanced Age, which will send the bean-counters into some sort of hysteria because it doesn't have a code…"

Jenny's head popped around the door again. "They're here."

"Good. Send 'em in," Gary turned back to the reluctant co-parents-in-law-to-be, and smiled as two more men entered the room, the tall one making a face like a cat's ass and the older one with a long grey pigtail who just stared and radiated disapproval.

"Jesus, Dean," began Sam, "What the hell have you been up to?"

"Hello dear," said Andrew, "Fancied a bit of a howl at the moon, did you?"

"Oh, God," moaned Dean, "Why did you have to call him?"

"Couldn't you just lock us up?" wailed Ronnie.

Gary beamed at the newcomers. "Take 'em away, gentlemen," he instructed, watching as Sam ushered his brother out, keeping up a litany of complaint about Dean's behaviour, while Andrew shepherded Ronnie out in silence, except for a brief exchange of low growling.

He gave them a cheerful wave as they left, then went to fetch himself a coffee, and head back to his spreadsheets, briefly letting his brain entertain itself by imagining the ear-bashing the two antagonists would get. Yeah, sometimes calling in the responsible adults was, in the end, more effective than the letter of the law. And a lot more amusing to boot.

* * *

><p>Everybody shake your kale pom-poms for Jackie-Joy (which is the only sensible thing to do with kale, because it sure as hell isn't edible) and let's hope the little wretch dictates the next chapter soon. If you left a review for the I ATEN'T DEAD chapter six message already whilst logged in, you can leave one for the new and improved Ch 6 by writing it as a guest, i.e. not logged in - but make sure you include your name so I know who to think grateful thoughts at. Gooooo bunny!<p> 


End file.
